When you visit a place
You have been before
There to find a trace
Of Self on the dusty floor
Or swept under the rusty rail
Where you leaned with a beer
And looked down on a crowd,
It feels so near-
But the sapling that stood
On the Green is a tree,
The kids aren't as loud,
And nobody smokes anymore.
Then, you were free
-But full of fear
Now, padded shackles built
Of quiet duty borne
Bind you to your life...
Still, your spirit soars.
(6/23/89 - Written after a visit (back) to The Village Green in Chapel Hill, with Sue and Patrick. A pale echo of what it was back when I was an undergraduate or graduate student and visited with Craig and Bill and Kenny and even Marty - ripped, of course.)